Under Stars
by Idle Leaves
Summary: Sparring - and more - under stars. Fingon/Maedhros.


**Cast:** Fingon, Maedhros.  
><strong>Notes:<strong> Originally posted for PB XII, and my first posted fic in this fandom.  
><strong>Length:<strong> ~770 words  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Sparring (and more) under stars.

-  
><strong>UNDER STARS<br>-**

It's been a long road, already, and the journey is not yet over by half. Maedhros' body is approaching its former strength, and his mind is sharp as ever; his heart, however, is still in shadow, and although light breaks through more and more often, of late, Fingon does not expect the shadow to ever vanish completely.

It's part of the reason he's out here, now, amongst the trees, sparring under stars on a cloudless night, though he just arrived that morning for a long-overdue visit. He would not insult Maedhros with wooden weapons meant for young ones, but neither, he thinks, would he want anyone else within reach of Maedhros' sword. Not yet.

Maedhros is the aggressor, tonight; their blades flash in the light from a near-full moon. Though he has not yet succeeded in breaking through Fingon's defenses, more than once he has come close. Too close. They speak little, and take few breaks; the singing in the central courtyard behind them fell to silence some time ago.

Maedhros stumbles back, suddenly, his sword-arm falling to his side. Fingon stills, then lowers his weapon; when he takes a concerned step forward, Maedhros lunges and sends his sword spinning out of his hand. As he stands still in surprise-and chagrin-Maedhros laughs. It's a sound Fingon hasn't heard in years.

"That is the _oldest_-" Fingon begins, then stops. "I suppose you think you're clever," he grumbles, holding back a smile. Then, he draws his knives.

This time, he takes the lead, and Maedhros is forced to defend. Fingon's knives don't have the reach of a sword, but he makes it work to his advantage for a time. When he catches Maedhros' sword between both his blades, he throws them both off balance, and they tumble to the ground.

Fingon lands on his back with Maedhros sprawled beside-and on-him, the breath knocked from his lungs. For a moment, he only lies there, gasping; he can feel Maedhros doing the same. Though they are tangled together from shoulder to knee, he is not altogether prepared for how close Maedhros' face is to his own when he opens his eyes.

Later, he will not remember which one of them moved first. It's less a kiss, to begin with, than a clash of teeth and tongue. Fingon realises he's still clutching one of his knives, and he throws it aside, leaving himself unarmed. In more ways than one.

Maedhros' mouth is on his neck, then his jaw; his tongue laps at the curve of Fingon's ear. Fingon raises his hands; he's sure, somewhere in the back of his mind, that he means to push Maedhros away, but instead he finds himself working at the fastenings of the layers of clothing between them. It takes something near an eternity for Fingon to rid them both of their protective clothing then tunics and undertunics, and Maedhros makes a low, frustrated sound deep in his throat. It turns into a gasp when Fingon's hips rock up against his.

Fingon looks at the sky, turning his face away from the brightness in Maedhros' eyes, a too-familiar gleam that seems to outshine even the stars above them.

It's over too soon, or perhaps not soon enough. Fingon is left shuddering, one hand in Maedhros' hair and the other stroking his hip. He risks a glance; Maedhros' eyes are closed, now, his lips parted and his breath coming in short gasps. He traces his fingers over Fingon's brow, cheek, lips, then moves away.

Fingon gets to his feet. His tunic had lain beneath him and is hopelessly wrinkled, but there should be few about at this hour, in the courtyard or the halls, to notice. He dresses, quickly, and collects their weapons. Maedhros, by now, is used to working one-handed, but it takes him a little longer than Fingon to arrange his clothing again. Fingon waits, and does not offer aid. He does, however, hand Maedhros his sword when he is able to take it; Maedhros wordlessly accepts and sheaths it, watching Fingon with a strange, almost puzzled, expression on his face.

For reasons he can't explain, Fingon reaches out; he slides a hand around the back of Maedhros' neck and draws him forward. The kiss, this time, is slow and gentle-things they are not, nor ever have been, with each other.

"Come," Maedhros says, quietly, when they draw apart. Fingon's only response is a cursory nod, and he walks with Maedhros out of the forest.


End file.
